


settle down with me by the fire of my yearning

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 4 years of IDGAF, 4 years of loving and being loved, ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, ASOIAF Rare Pair Week 2019, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because it's my fic and I do what I want, DON'T BE FOOLED, F/M, I just love that picture of Joe Dempsie, Just as like, Lady the Direwolf LIVES, Petyr dies, The moodboard makes this look modern, a heads up, and DESIRE and being DESIRED, this is my gift to sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 23:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19982236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: sansa x gendry, rarepair promptfill, 7kPetyr Baelish steals away Sansa Stark in the dead of night. When she reaches the ship, she finds a man with a black eye that doesn't disguise the fire in his blue gaze. They both have secrets, but it doesn’t stop them from reaching for each other.Or, four years where Alayne Stone lives with all the freedom she can give herself, with all the love and laughter she deserves, and it changes very little, in the grand scheme of things. But for her, it changes everything.(title from: fleet foxes, ragged wood)





	settle down with me by the fire of my yearning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woodswit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/gifts).



> for madeleine: who always encourages me to write what's fun and also talks with me endlessly about why sometimes it's so hard. also GENSA! 
> 
> this was INCREDIBLY fun to write. thanks to the anon who sent in the prompt which i loosely, mostly followed. 
> 
> for ASOIAF Rare Pair Weekend  
>  _promptfill_ : "Gendry Waters/Alayne Stone (Sansa Stark) - Gendry knows she's hiding something and has been for years, but as he looks into his daughter's eyes, he realizes he doesn't care."

Perhaps, if Catelyn Stark had told her eldest daughter about men who would covet her beauty, her face, her gleaming copper hair, she would have known what it could cost her to refuse, what it could cost to give in, and how she must always balance the scale between her life and her happiness, her safety and her heartbeat, pounding in her chest. 

Perhaps, it is possible, if Gendry’s mother had not drank herself to death, she could have imparted lessons about not trusting strangers, about not answering the door in the night, about running like hell when the wind smells a certain way, like a perfume covering the smell of rotten meat. 

Perhaps, if Ned Stark had paid better attention to his daughters, had not prized loyalty over family, duty and honor over their safety, four whole years would not have happened. 

\---

But, instead, on the eve of Joffrey’s murder, Sansa is whisked away onto a private waiting boat, where a young man with dark hair and a purpling bruise over his right eye is already slumped on the dock, enough rope around his forearms to hold a small bear. She looks to Petyr, who she mostly trusts, for now, despite the way his smiles sometimes make her feel oily, slippery, like an eel he is grasping to hold, a mouse he is circling to devour. She had never wanted to be a mouse, just a lady. And now she is mussed and her hair is out of place and Petyr is eyeing the way it catches the moonlight. She tucks it self-consciously behind her ear. Her direwolf clings tightly to her side as they board the ship, paws unsteady and teeth lightly bared. She may only be half-grown, but her head already comes to Sansa’s hip, and for all that she is called Lady and groomed carefully and brushed until her coat gleams, her teeth shine even brighter in the darkness. 

She would have liked to know where they were going, but she found out soon enough: to family, to her aunt Lysa, to the Vale and its formidable fortress. It should have been comforting, to be around her aunt, but there was a madness in her Tully blue eyes that was frightening in its intensity, in the way her hands would grasp Sansa’s shoulders just a little too tightly. Her grip loosened once Sansa’s hair was properly dark, her clothes properly replaced, and her name swapped to be that of Alayne Stone, the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. 

(If Sansa thought too hard about why smudging the edges of her identity made her aunt more comfortable, she would realize the precarious nature of her situation, how utterly trapped she was, with no way to find Arya, or Bran, or Rickon. She hadn’t heard from them in months, even before they left King’s Landing. Petyr’s gaze hardened whenever she asked, the grip of his hand on her waist tight enough to bruise, so she didn’t ask any more). 

Her only comfort in all of the Vale was the bruised boy from the boat. _Gendry_ , he was called. Once his bruised eye had healed and the quivering violence had settled from his veins, she had noticed the striking blue of his eyes, the broad set of his shoulders, the way that he, too, seemed to be held captive and apart from the others. Petyr’s gaze warned her to stay away – so she did, but once they arrived at the Vale and her hair was dark and Lysa was doing her best to be entrancing, she slipped out to the forge whenever she could, determined to befriend her fellow captive. 

Determined to feel less alone. 

\---

In another world, perhaps Alayne would have been Sweetrobin’s companion, groomed to marry him and care for him even as Sansa Stark, to unite the North and the Vale and further Petyr’s agenda. 

But his beady eyes watched as her friendship with the Baratheon bastard bloomed, the looks that he gave her when she wasn’t paying attention, the way she spent more and more time at the forge. Plans could change, they changed all the time, and Petyr prided himself on his flexibility, his observation, his clever manipulation of people’s desires. 

So, knowing well what it had been like to be scorned, to be jealous, to want a woman more than anything in the world, the thrill of the competition and how it could incite passion, he introduced Alayne to the handsome, if boorish, Harry Hardyng. Invited him to stay, to partake of their feasts, to learn the ins and outs of the Vale. He was next in line for the Vale, if Sweetrobin did not endure through his teenage years– and his health, poor boy, seemed to ever be on the decline. (He was running out of maiden’s lily. He would have to get more before Robin made a mysterious recovery). 

In addition, Gendry was invited to the castle with the rest of the them – Mya and Harry and Alayne – to partake in lessons, learning to read and write and do his numbers. (Sansa showed her struggles so prettily that even he might have been fooled by the overly grand loops of her handwriting, but her grammar was perfect. Blood will out, he supposed). Might as well make the Baratheon bastard good for something. He would serve his purpose, same as Harry, no matter which Sansa eventually chose as her first love. They were a gift, to her, in a way. Whichever boy she decided was worth her time didn’t matter to him; either way, Petyr considered it to be another step further in his grand plan, to get him closer to the throne with his pretty, copper-headed blue-eyed bride by his side. 

A betrothal, an unveiling, a coup d’état - theirs would be something of a love story. 

And if it wasn’t at first? Well, he was a patient man. 

\--- 

Gendry didn’t talk to her, at first. Not really. And that suited her, to sit in the only place in the Eyrie that didn’t seem chilled, the only place she could feel the flush of heat on her cheeks even in the height of summer, the only place she could let the spool of tension in her spine unwind, to lazily lean against the wall and unbraid and braid and unbraid her hair, humming an old Northern melody all the while. 

Petyr would have accompanied her, likely would have followed her every day until she decided on a different hobby, but placating Aunt Lysa and manipulating the kingdom took far too much of his time and energy these days. She was grateful for it. 

As the months went by, and she became, slowly, more Alayne and less Sansa, the freedom of one making the influence of the other pale in comparison – she could _laugh_ now, and sing, whenever she pleased, and run and ride and just be - she developed a friendship with Mya Stone, who, in turn, pointed out the development of Gendry’s muscles, and the way he liked to work in the forge without a shirt. Mya would raise her eyebrows wickedly each time her dear friend would sneak off to the forge – and while Sansa would have blushed, Alayne made a crude hand gesture, laughed out loud, and continued seeking out this boy who was a stranger to her, this boy on the cusp of manhood, shrouded in secrecy. What sort of boy carries secrets like she does, like they compose the very fabric of their identities? 

Some days, it took everything in her not to demand answers to the questions that had been bothering her for months. (Mainly: who _was_ he, that Petyr would deem him worthy enough to be kidnapped on the same night as her? To flee King’s Landing with the both of them, and then to leave him to his own devices but make it clear he could not leave, it didn’t make sense. Petyr could have explained, but he wouldn’t – he took pleasure in watching her brain puzzle things out. She took pleasure, now, in avoiding him whenever possible).

But she waited and enjoyed the silence. She could be patient. 

When Gendry finally started talking to her, he started by asking questions about her direwolf. Lady would accompany her to just outside the forge, the heat too much for her heavy coat, head nearing her shoulders – growing ever taller. She had fought and fought with Petyr to allow her to stay – direwolves were fairly distinctive, even up in this cold climate – and he had agreed, finally, pressing a whiskery kiss to her cheek and murmuring that he spoiled her, his sweet girl. She smiled at him dutifully, as a good daughter would, hugging him tightly and then spending the rest of the night curled up in her room, face buried in Lady’s fur, even the hottest bath unable to scrub the feeling of filth from her shoulders. 

She answered all his questions, gladly – talking around the truth as best as she could. Lady was found as a pup, and Alayne raised her for her own. Yes, she’d likely get bigger and bigger. No, she didn’t bite. And here, she grinned, broad and wolf-teeth and mischievous and only slightly malicious. “Only if I tell her to.” Gendry made a show of raising his arms in surrender, and she laughed. 

She pretended not to notice the way he would slip the direwolf the best cuts of his meat under the table, until Lady was just as apt to be found at his side, enormous snout nosing about the pockets of his trousers for more snacks. Alayne would scold her (all while fondly rubbing the spot behind her ears that she loves so much) and then turn on him, asking how dare he steal her wolf like that, how dare he _buy_ her affections.

It was only a matter of time before Gendry started presenting her with things as well – a poesy left on her plate at the dinner table when she wasn’t looking, or an extra apple pastry snagged fresh from the kitchen. 

One day, in the forge, she confronted him. 

“So, are you bartering for my wolf or buying my affections the way you’ve bought hers?” She teased, leaning against the workbench and not caring what sorts of smudges it would leave. 

He grinned at her, unrepentant, as he finished up his work for the day and wiped his hands on the apron. “Both?” 

“I am not a wolf, to be bought with treats and flowers,” she snorted, indignant as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulders. 

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head. “You are Alayne, and I fear your bite far more than your wolf’s.” 

“You should.” She snapped her teeth at him, glaring fiercely, before she couldn’t keep the façade up a moment longer, and laughed, feeling the hammer of heart beating a steady rhythm against her chest, her stomach diving and swooping as a trapped bird in a cage.

(She was certainly a trapped bird in a cage, but this was the most freedom she’d ever had). 

As they walked up to dinner, his hand brushed hers and a tremor danced up her spine, though she laughed and talked as if this was normal, as if she was used to imagining how it would feel if he took her hand, if he wrapped his arms around her waist, if he pressed his lips against her forehead, her chin, her cheek, her lips. 

(Alayne dreamt of Gendry that evening, flashes of visions that would have made every septa in the kingdom blush. 

She wasn’t familiar with the feeling – not as Sansa, not as Alayne. It wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite love or hate, but this mounting, burning curiosity to trace the contours of his shoulders with her fingertips, the sharp angle of his hipbones with her tongue, for him to press his body up against her body so that she may feel every inch of him and be quite consumed by him. 

This was desire, and she was nearly drunk on it). 

One final gift, just a few days later: a dagger, tucked under her pillow one night. (He had noticed, in the way that not many had, the way Petyr looked at her). 

She turned it over in her hands, admiring the craftmanship and reveling in the queer way that it made her feel. 

Namely, _seen_. 

\---

Watching Gendry watch Mya was, perhaps, the most infuriating thing of Alayne’s entire time here at the Vale. 

They sat across from each other at the dinner table, Alayne and Harry joining them to drink and feast and enjoy the musicians and the inevitable dancing. The Vale, for all its chill, feasted into the early dawn each month when all the lords and ladies gathered together in their finery – all glimmering necklaces and jowls covered in sweat from all the ale, and behind it all, Petyr’s dark eyes watching from next to his lady wife, bejeweled hand wrapped around a wine glass that was never refilled. (She tried not to look at him, not to remind herself of how dangerous he could be, not to provoke the ire of his lady wife and remind herself of the infamous Moon Door). 

Mya, Alayne agreed, was particularly incandescent in the new evening gown that she had helped craft, but somehow Gendry noticing the particular glow of her dear friend caused a traitorous flush of anger to spread across her cheeks. His blue eyes traced the silhouette of her curvy friend – petite and buxom and all riotous curls and laughing eyes and not even a _hint_ of a traumatic past – and Alayne turned, determinedly, to Harry Hardyng, with his broad jaw and sparkling eyes and the muscles of a man who trained for showmanship, not skill. She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and she winked and she laughed, leaning forward until Harry’s eyes traced the path from her collarbone downwards and within just a few minutes, she had nearly forgotten the stupid boy from the ship. 

Nearly. 

But the feel of Gendry’s thigh pressed up against hers at the crowded table was warm, the murmur of his voice was a persistent earworm on her left side, and the smell of him – _gods it was annoying_ – was intoxicating. She didn’t understand it. This bastard boy, all dark hair and bright eyes and a smile that only slowly bloomed from the left corner of his mouth to the right, had captivated her. 

She was no closer to discovering why Petyr had brought him here- but she wasn’t stupid. He fancied himself a master of human desire, and though Mya and Harry had come along, neither of them had mysterious pasts. They had lived here their whole lives and knew exactly who their parents were and were comfortable, entirely, in their status and place in the world. Granted, Harry was set to inherit everything when Sweetrobin’s constitution inevitably failed in the next few years, so why wouldn’t he be comfortable? Petyr fancied himself the master manipulator of the kingdom, and while Alayne didn’t doubt the truth in that, his schemes were so transparent at times it was nearly laughable. 

He wished to distract her from one with the other but didn’t seem to care which prevailed – only answering her innocent questions indulgently. And wasn’t that a hint, in and of itself? If he wanted power – and she had no doubt that power was his ultimate goal – and she knew that she was the key to the North, why wouldn’t he care if she chose some lowly bastard boy over the heir to the Vale? Unless, of course, this bastard boy could be an heir to something of equal power or more? 

He laughed next to her – a great, booming laugh – and she nearly jumped. She had heard that laugh before, though it had been years. Her eyes flickered to Petyr at the head table. He nodded, and raised his glass to her, just slightly. _Clever girl_ , she could almost hear him say. Her shoulders rolled back as if to brush off invisible hands. 

_A Baratheon bastard._ Likely one of the few remaining, if Cersei had been successful in her purge of King’s Landing and – 

“Alayne? Alayne!” Mya’s voice broke through the din of the room as she reached across the table to grab her friend’s hand, brow furrowed together. “Are you alright?” 

She swallowed heavily, forcing a bright smile on her face. “Oh, yes, I just- I just need to take a moment and get some fresh air.” 

No sooner were the words from her mouth than Harry started to rise from the table, a look in his sparkling eyes that spoke to heady kisses in dark corners, and perhaps a mildly enjoyable romp in her chambers, but she placated him with a hand upon his arm, and a look that she knew made promises for later. Promises she had no intention of keeping 

“I’ll be right back, I promise.” 

She had to think, and couldn’t possibly within this crowded, hot hall with Gendry so close to her. 

It wasn’t until she was by a window, gazing out at the moonlight, that she felt like she could breathe again. Could reasonably walk through the mess of her mind, avoiding the splinters of her identity as a wolf-girl, a little bird, and pull the truth to the forefront of her mind. 

Gendry was the heir to the throne. He was a bastard, to be sure, but murmurs had already been flying around King’s Landing when she left about the true parentage of Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella. Golden hair, sun-kissed skin, those haunting green eyes from Cersei – not a one of them looked a thing like the King Robert. But Gendry, with his dark hair and defined jawline and the blue in his eyes that spoke of the way steel sings when he slams his hammer down, with a spark like to set the place ablaze. _Ours is the fury._

There was one thing she didn’t understand. Or, maybe, she understood it but was afraid to look it in the face. Petyr was, at the heart of it, a simple man with simple desires. He wanted power, he wanted her. Cersei would have wanted Gendry to disappear, in one way or another, and Petyr had certainly accomplished that, stealing him from King’s Landing the same night he spirited her away – but why? What purpose does he suit in his master plan? 

Unless… a bleating from a mountain goat caught her attention, and in the dark she saw horns and thought antlers. Thought of Renly, Stannis, the power of a name, the draw of reputation and the allure of new blood in the water. 

A chill settled over her shoulders, and Alayne wrapped her arms around her waist. She had a suspicion, but she dared even think it. Voicing her fears had never helped, in the past, so why bother now? Why not let them fester in her heart like a rotting core, a poisoned well? 

Footsteps sounded behind her. 

She made every effort to bring back the beguiling smile that had been plastered on her face all through dinner before turning around to greet Harry. 

But, of course, fate would have it, or maybe luck, it wasn’t Harry, or Mya, or even Petyr. 

It was Gendry. _Baratheon_ , her mind supplied helpfully. 

“Oh,” she said, stupidly, into the cold air between them as he approached. “It’s you.” 

He snorted as he came to stand next to her. “Yes, it’s me. Were you expecting someone else? The prince of the Vale, Harry the Heir, perhaps?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively and only laughed when she rolled her eyes, letting some of the tension eke out of his shoulders. Gendry leaned out on the window-ledge, placing his elbows on the stonework as he looked up at the moon, then – carefully, quickly, as if she wouldn’t notice – at her. 

Heart hammering an unsteady rhythm in her throat, she leaned back against the same ledge. Her shoulder brushed his and she ignored, as best she could, the shiver that went down her spine, as she said, loftily, “I don’t care much for princes, if you must know.” 

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of relief gleaming in his eyes. “What do you care for?” 

“Lady, mostly,” she said, seriously (truthfully). But it broke the odd tension between them as he started to laugh. That booming laugh once more, as if he’d grown into it, as if he finally felt free enough to laugh in the way he’d always wanted to, as if he felt comfortable around her. 

She liked that laugh – as much as it sent adrenaline pounding through her veins at the cost of another secret, the price of another life. She liked the way the moonlight carved shadows along his face, softening the sharpness of him, bringing him into focus. She liked how she felt safe next to him. It had been a long time since she had felt safe around anyone. (Except Mya, whose quiet comments that made her laugh uproariously and reminded her, sometimes, of Jeyne). 

“You seem to care for Mya,” she offered, trying to tease but falling flat. 

The laugh faded from his eyes as he stood up, towering over her once more, eyes scanning her face in the darkness of the corridor, in the moonlight. He didn’t answer her, not directly. 

“Your hair – it almost looks red, in this light,” he said quietly, reaching a hand out towards her face to smooth back a loose strand of hair and then stopping short, thinking better of himself, of his actions. Of the liberties he would like to take with her. 

Alayne thought of the liberties she would allow him to take – of the way desire for him had intoxicated her more than mead or wine, and of how much she cared for him, truly, as a friend – and reached out to take his hand and press it firmly to her cheek. She reveled in the warmth of his calloused hand, and looked up at him, through her lashes. 

There was none of the synthetic allure here, that she had manufactured for Harry - all carefully cultivated promises and sideways glances and doll-like smiles. Between the two of them, even with all of the secrets she held in the palm of her hand, there was something real. Something true. Alayne let him see the vulnerability in her eyes, the jealousy she had held for her dear friend, but mostly, the longing that threatened to shatter all of her defenses around her carefully guarded heart. 

His other hand found hers in the darkness, tracing the edges of her fingertips. 

The simple touch was enough to send her heart careening against her ribs, to send a spark down her spine and back up again, to make her keenly aware of the number of layers between them (too many). 

“Come see me, tonight, in the forge,” he murmured. 

Her teeth bit into her bottom lip as she thought, considered, for half a moment, the consequences, before nodding. His broad grin set her aflame. The next few hours could not pass quickly enough. 

\--- 

“You think those two idiots have figured it out yet?” Mya said to Harry, elbowing him as she noticed that Gendry had started to come back into the hall, an energy in his stride that hadn’t been there mere minutes ago. 

Harry, too busy gnawing on a drumstick to properly respond, shrugged, nearly toppling his goblet as he did so. 

Mya rolled her eyes. _Men_. 

\--- 

(Sansa would never have done this. Alayne didn’t think twice). 

Gendry was waiting for her, pacing impatiently in front of the smoldering embers. 

She lowered the hood of her cloak as she slipped inside, footsteps quiet against the floor, but it took only seconds before he gathered her in close, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning his forehead against her own for a moment. She inhaled deeply. 

“You came,” he said, with a hint of wonder in his low tones, a gentleness to his touch. 

She shrugged, smoothing the shoulders of his shirt with trembling hands. 

This casual touch, these easy gestures between them, the way she felt at once completely at home in her own skin and like lightening was running through her veins – it was overwhelming. It was perfect. Alayne had never been taught that her touches were sacred gifts for her husband, that she must always be chaperoned until her wedding day, that her body was a temple that must be treated with great care and then given up, again and again, for the duty of bearing heirs one after the other, at her lord husband’s leisure. 

Alayne only knew that this felt good, that she wanted him (desperately), and that she could get a special tea from the cook, if she needed to. The cook was partial to her, and wouldn’t tell Petyr, and so she was free to do as she pleased. 

_Free_. 

Only one final thing to clarify, before they begin. 

“I don’t want you to want Mya,” she whispered as his mouth lowered towards her, hovering in the small, electric space between them. Waiting for permission. Waiting for her. His voice was low when he spoke next, almost a growl, possessive and full of lust and she felt… powerful. 

“I don’t want her, never have. I've only ever wanted you.” 

She inhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to meet his own. Burning gazes locked together before she surged up on her toes – gods, but this man was so tall – and pressed her lips firmly against his own. He matched her, kiss for kiss, learning together at the feel of each other, snaking his arm around her waist to bring her closer, a hand to cup her neck so that he could kiss down the graceful column of her pale skin. 

They were consumed by each other – burning, burning, burning – until hours had passed, and the firelight was low, and they were splayed in front of the fire, Alayne on Gendry’s lap, wrapped in a blanket to keep away the chill of the evening. She hummed a Northern melody, heart content and alight with the revelations of this evening, as she traced the outline of his fingertips against her thigh. 

She barely, barely, made it back to her bed before sunrise. 

\--- 

Only a few weeks later, it had become a habit, to be consumed by Gendry in every spare moment of her day. 

Alayne was perched up on his work bench, legs spread widely around his hips as his hand traced circles on her inner thigh, his head buried in-between her breasts, when she heard the bells tolling, calling them for dinner. His suggestion that they skip it and head straight to his chambers was dutifully considered, and promptly (regretfully) ignored. 

Petyr would notice, and she had learned long ago that Petyr noticing was a dangerous thing. 

She re-braided her hair between languorous kisses, grinning broadly as he attempted to restore some sort of order to his hair, unable to resist staying close to him, wiping the soot from her clothes the best she could, and preparing for whatever lewd comments Mya would lob their way over dinner, the three of them laughing at the corner table in the back of the hall. Alayne did not blush, but smiled wickedly, and winked at Gendry until Mya protested that she should either quit teasing the poor boy or take him off into the dark corners and have her way with him. Otherwise, Mya argued, he was bound to combust. 

Gendry’s flushed gaze and the way he avoided her eyes made her laugh. (The way his hand gripped her thigh under the table made her suspect that she was not the only one like to combust from desire). 

They bid goodnight and she nearly danced the entire way back to her chambers, giddy and hot and drunk with the power that kisses could hold. She wanted to see him again immediately, wanted to drag him to her chambers and map the curves of his muscles with her tongue. But she could be patient, and her patience would be rewarded as darkness fell over the castle. She would sneak along the shadowed corridors into his chambers, or he into hers, and they would wake with the first glimpse of the sun over the horizon. 

It was heady, this desire. 

It was almost enough to make her forget.

Lord Yohn Royce had approached her shortly after his arrival, just the week before. Petyr had delayed him long enough, but he could delay the impatient, dignified man no longer. Even if he had known, quite well, the look of the Starks. Even if he would recognize, with ease, and despite the darkened hair and clothes worthy only of a bastard daughter of a lesser lord, Sansa Stark. 

In her days at King’s Landing, it was said she looked just like her lady mother. And that was true – but she had something of her father in her eyes, an innocence to the cruelties of the world, a loyalty to her family, to her pack. Something noble and honorable and true. She couldn’t see her true father in the mirror anymore, not after the lies and deception and horrible mistakes she had made. Not after she had lost Arya, caused his death, betrayed her family with every word from her lips. 

But this burly man with the white beard recognized her – his eyes lit up when he saw her, when he really looked at her – and quietly, carefully, offered her his loyalty, and his aid, should she require it and ask it of him. His swords were hers, he had said. 

A glance to Petyr at the head of the table had reminded her of her shackles, of her tutelage, of knowing the price of each kindness and the ways to repay it in turn. She had nothing to offer but her name, and her time in the South had taught her the unworthiness of the simple letters stacked together, the way the biting sound at the end of Stark sounded like the thwack of a sword blade against a chopping block, the false protection her name had offered her, believing she was safe but covered in bruises every night. So, she had pretended to not know what he was talking about, laughing too brightly and spinning away into Gendry’s arms – unable to watch as the light in his eyes faded into melancholy, as they always did when anyone looked at her and saw her for her name. 

_Poor little wolf girl, all alone. Poor little wolf girl, so far from home._

But there was comfort to be found here, in the privacy of her chambers. She curled up with Lady and pressed her head into her fur, as she did every night, and smelled, inexplicably, the North – the weirwoods and the cold stream behind Winterfell and the sweet oils her mother used to wear at the pulse of her graceful neck. 

And, just like every other night, part of her identity as Sansa splintered into smaller and smaller shards. Sometimes, she feared the little girl she had once been would be lost to her forever. 

Sometimes, she wished for nothing more. 

\---  
Perhaps, if aunt Lysa hadn’t been slowly descending into madness while Petyr tried to manage her and the Lords of the Vale, if Robin hadn’t been demanding more of his attention as his health inexplicably started to improve, if Yohn Royce hadn’t become more and more suspicious of Petyr’s bastard daughter, he would have been able to keep a closer eye on Alayne. He would have noticed her blooming relationship with the Baratheon bastard. 

He would have heard the reports that they hardly spent a night in their own beds, hardly spent a moment apart, were seen hand-in-hand more than once. 

He would have made sure her tea was moon tea, every morning. 

But, instead, Petyr assumed that Sansa’s good breeding and dutiful lessons from her mother would carry her through this infatuation, that she may kiss the boy but not let him inside of her, not lose that most sacred part of her. Petyr, as it turned out, knew a lot about many people – but not quite enough about this fractured girl he had claimed as his own. 

\--- 

It didn’t take long, for them to slip up. Forget. Be so lost in each other that she didn’t realize what was going on until she was sick and the sickness didn’t go away but her moonblood never came and - 

Alayne sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for him. Filled with nervous energy, she kneaded the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other and bit her lip until it was tender, nightgown loose around her shoulders. He slipped into his chambers, face lit by the soft candlelight in the room, and she looked away immediately, too exposed by half in his eyes. Her hair served as a shield from his gaze – more copper by the day, and she couldn’t bring herself to dye it, not again, and it only served to remind her of who she used to be. The claim she had on the North. The path she could take, the path she could deny. 

Gendry opened his mouth and stepped towards her, but she held out a hand beseechingly. He stopped in his tracks, brow furrowed in confusion. She wanted to kiss the creases from his face, but she had to do this, she must. They were running out of time. 

“Are you alright, Alayne?” He pressed, coming to take her hand and kiss the palm she had been worrying, pressing it against his face as he looked up at her from his place at her feet. 

“I’m with child,” she whispered, voice cracking in the silence between them, looking down at him through tearful and fearful eyes. 

(Once Petyr knew – Gendry was almost certainly dead. 

And she would almost certainly lose this small piece of him that she carried, even now, in her heart and low in her belly, a small bump that would only grow and grow. 

The part of her that was a wolf protested fiercely, stiffened her spine, refused to allow any harm to befall those she could protect, those she could love. Her pack may be small, but it is yet a pack).

The blue eyes she loved so much brightened, and a smile grew so broad across his face as to crack it in two. He wrapped her into his arms as if she was a precious, fragile thing, as if she was bound to break. She didn’t even realize she was crying until he pressed kiss after kiss against her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her chin, until she was laughing and protesting and pushing him away. He refused to move far, keeping his arms wrapped around her waist, letting her head fall into the crook of his shoulder. 

“I wanted to marry you first, to be sure, but we can go to the sept in the morning, if you want.” 

“You want to marry me?” She pulled back to look him in the eyes, disbelief plain on her pale face. For love? She hadn’t thought she’d ever have that, in any lifetime. 

He nodded and pressed his lips to her forehead, all easy assurances and simple truth. “I love you, Alayne, don’t you know?” 

She settled into his warmth, reveling in the feeling of her heart careening in her chest. “I love you too,” she murmured, content and safe and at home with the man who loved her, who thought that she was enough, who would never demand of her what she didn’t freely give. He didn’t know all of her secrets, but he didn’t even know his own secrets, so she thought it balanced out, in one way or another. 

_I’ll keep you safe_ , Alayne swore to the little babe growing steadily in her belly, _no matter the cost_. What she didn’t know is that Gendry was swearing the same thing, thinking of her purported father and his slimy gaze. 

\--- 

Perhaps that night was the beginning of the end, for Petyr. Perhaps it started the moment he stashed two teenagers away on a boat to a foreign place, and expected them to fall in line just so, according to his desire as puppet-master, as guardian, as master manipulator. 

Perhaps Petyr, had he known more about Alayne, known more about Sansa, would have been able to prevent his own fate; but his downfall was the same as it was always meant to be. He had underestimated, constantly and repetitively, the power of loyalty, of love, of family. 

Of what a mother wolf would do for her cubs. Of what a bull would do for his mate. 

It turned out, Petyr was quite afraid of heights. He begged so prettily, but it hadn’t saved Sansa, hadn’t saved her father, and didn’t save the Mockingbird in the end, either. Lysa threw herself after him - predictably, horribly. SweetRobin was sent to the Citadel for healing, for even after the poison that Littlefinger had been giving him had run out, he still was sickly, and Alayne was afraid his constitution would not survive the next winter at the Vale. Once he had healed and learned from the Maesters for a year or two, the role of the Lord of the Vale would be his. She had no doubts he’d take to it well, once he grew up a little bit, of course. 

Harry the Heir was a lovely man, in comparison. And if he was a little block-headed sometimes, well, dear Alayne was always happy to step in and smooth the way. The lords of the Vale began to take notice of this willowy woman with dark hair that seemed to glow in the firelight, of her capable husband, of the swelling of her belly. 

She was fair, they would murmur among themselves, and kind. They had heard of Lyanna Mormont in the North, of Yara Greyjoy at the Iron Islands, of Daenerys Targaryen raising armies across the sea. Perhaps the tides were turning. Alayne was offered a position on the council in the spring of her second year at the Vale. She accepted with a gracious smile, just days before she gave birth to their first child, a girl. 

\--- 

Gendry sat next to her, shoulders soft as he rocked their newborn daughter, letting her suckle on his finger and gazing at her with adoring eyes. “She’s beautiful, Alayne, I can’t stop staring at her. Is that normal?” 

She laughed in spite of herself and wiped the tears from her eyes, moving closer to the pair of them. Her family. “I think so,” she said softly, kissing the downy curls of her baby girl’s head. Lady nosed her head into her mistress’s lap, eyes glued on the bundle that smelled like both Sansa and Gendry and something new altogether, something sweet. 

“What should we call her?” he mused aloud, tracing a fingertip along the curve of her cheek, before turning back to Alayne, eyes bright with happiness. 

She hesitated, but she must be brave. She must tell the truth. “That’s… what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

His brow furrowed immediately. “What is it?” 

“I –“ _I’m not Alayne. My name is Sansa Stark. Winterfell should be mine, there should always be a Stark in Winterfell._

_You’re a Baratheon, with as strong a claim to the throne as anyone._

_The world could be ours, if we wanted it._

The baby started to fuss, and Gendry handed their daughter to Sansa with little fuss to let her feed her, settling in against her side to rub her back in a steady, comforting rhythm. 

“Tell me, love. You can tell me anything.” 

Alayne offered him a smile. “I think we should call her Catelyn,” she murmured, leaning her head into her husband. She couldn’t tell him the truth, not today. 

Petyr was gone, Robin was gone, Lysa was gone. The Vale was, effectively, hers. If she wanted the North, if she heard of her family, maybe she would tell him then – claim her birthright, go back to Winterfell, raise little Cat as the perfect Northern princess. But maybe, here, they could keep their peace. 

Maybe, here, they could keep their happiness. 

\--- 

The sands in the hourglass fell impatiently against the bottom, filling up slowly, moment by moment, until one day, when she least expected it, four years had passed from the day that Alayne arrived at the Vale with Gendry Waters sulking in the background. 

She ruled the Vale, after Harry the Heir’s unfortunate fall from his horse during a particularly reckless hunt. His body was recovered in pieces and somehow, the council turned to her. The Lords of the Vale turned to her. In no small part, she suspected, because of Lord Royce’s mild suggestions about the fairness of her decisions, the wisdom and kindness she supposedly possessed. 

Gendry ruled by her side, the beloved bastards rising high in their towers at the Vale. They sealed up the moon door. He made her a circlet, and a matching one for his own brow, though he was hardly ever seen wearing it, much preferring to chase their wild children down the corridors. A girl, a boy – dark of hair, and blue eyes that most would say resembled their father, but Alayne knew better. A red-haired woman haunted her dreams, with eyes the exact shade of a stream in Riverrun. Tully eyes, they were called. 

It was fair to say they were beloved. It was true to say that songs had been written about their copper-haired Lady (for she would not dye it again, not now that Petyr was gone, not now that Gendry loved to twine his fingers through her locks in the firelight). It was also true that these songs had started to spread across the fractured kingdom. 

Four years passed, and their time for peace had run out. 

“Your Grace, I’m sorry, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is here, he refuses to wait –“ Yohn Royce sounded absolutely _affronted_ at the thought of his refusal to acknowledge the proper decorum, storming into the room mere seconds before a man dressed all in black, black curls pulled back from grey eyes and looking so much like their father that she was up and out of her chair in the space between heartbeats. 

“Jon?” Lady’s ears perked up from beside her chair, and she whined lowly, broad pale tail thumping quietly against the floor, eyes intent on the man standing in front of them, eyes wide. 

Gendry stopped the story he was reading aloud to their daughter, and the pair of them looked at this strange man that Alayne, apparently, already knew. Sweet Cat turned back to the story impatiently, but Gendry’s eyes lingered on the shattered look on his wife’s face. 

It spoke of something breaking apart, of something being stitched back together. He had known she had secrets, but he had secrets, too; still, they had built a life here, together, one full of joy and laughter and little feet. 

But time had run out. 

“Sansa?” 

*** 

A CONTINUATION, OF SORTS 

Gendry sat at the foot of their bed – where they had fallen back together, night after night, where they had quarreled and loved and where she had birthed their children – hands clasped together as he watched his wife, this strange woman, this Sansa Stark, remove the pins from her hair, carefully avoiding her eyes in the mirror. 

At last, she turned to him, copper hair tumbling down around her shoulders. 

“I should have told you,” she said, less of an apology than it was a statement. A fact. A truth that she had ignored for the last four years, avoiding opportunity after chance after opening to tell him her given name. The name that gave her power, a claim to a different land than this home they’d built together. 

He merely nodded, before venturing a secret of his own. “I’m not really Gendry Waters, I’m –“ 

“Gendry Baratheon.” She shrugged, a little sharpness in her eyes that only appeared when she was remembering her tutelage under the late Baelish. Intelligent, coy, and too clever by half for him to dream of keeping up. “I’ve known since near the beginning.” 

“Is that why you married me? For what my name could offer you?” He hated to ask, but he had to know. Had to know he could trust her, still. 

She stood, indignant, and strode over to him, bullying her hips between his legs to lean down and hold his face tightly within her hands. “I married you for love, Gendry.” 

“I know,” he murmured, looking up at her with honest eyes. 

“Can you forgive me this?” 

“Yes,” he said, at once, easy as breathing. His hands snaked around her waist to pull her into his lap, to rest his hand upon the small bump of her stomach – known only to him – and press his lips to her temple. He wasn’t sure what the future held, but they’d be side by side, and that was, really, all he cared about. 

Gendry and Sansa sat together, nestled in firelight, and she began to hum a Northern melody. 

\--- 

_Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long_  
_The spring is upon us, follow my only song_  
_Settle down with me by the fire of my yearning_  
_You should come back home, back on your own now_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can come fangirl with me on my tumblr @ jolie_unfiltrd  
> (if you liked this fic, i have two more gensa fics in-progress because i have no semblance of self-control) 
> 
> <3


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